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Poonamallee jumps with joy as Rajiv trial ends

Raju Naicker, 53, is a relieved man. He can now look forward to some business in his petty shop, selling betel leaves and soft drinks.

So can Shanti, 15, move about comfortably without the fear of being frisked by the police in the presence of her classmates.

For over six years now, the residents of a particular patch in this suburban town of Poonamallee, 35 km from Madras, have been fretting and fuming over the loss of fortune, and also over discomfort and restraints on their mobility.

In a way, they were the immediate neighbours of the 26 accused in the Rajiv Gandhi assassination case. And a few others charged with the killing of Sri Lanka militant leader Padmanabha and 14 others.

"My friends used to tease me, and I in turn would mockingly 'threaten' them, saying I would send Murugan or 'Chinna' Santhan to take care of them if they did not share sweets or class notes with me," chuckles 14-year-old Velayudham.

"Why, I would even tell them that I would order one of those companies of the Central Reserve Police Force 'guarding' me, to attack their houses, take them prisoner, and house them along with all those killers," he adds with mock-remorse-and-loss tinging his words. "Not any more."

For six long years now, residents in the neighbourhood of the high-security prison at Poonamallee have been having a harrowing time. It's only the likes of young Velayudham who could derive some fun out of a daily ordeal, that has cost them dearly even in economic terms.

With the 26 accused coming to be housed in the local prison -- which was also converted into a court under the Terrorist and Disruptive Activities (Prevention) Act, for trying them all without security risks -- the locality came to be declared as a 'protected area' under the law.

Entry and exit, thereof, even for those living in area, came to be restricted, and their movements watched.

"It was as if someone was watching you when you were taking your bath," recalls Rajammal, 40.

She concedes that the policemen were only doing their duty, and more often that not, there were policewomen to help them out. "But you cannot help feeling uncomfortable."

The policewomen were particularly present at crucial stages in the hearing, and whenever security alerts were mounted as a consequence of some incidents in Sri Lanka.

"First I, too, felt irritated. Later it looked funny. But soon, it all became a part of the routine," adds 45-year-old Seeni Ammal.

"You walk in and out of the barricaded area -- as if they did not exit, for most parts. The policemen knew us, and our faces and would not stop us on ordinary days. There used to be some hiccups whenever there was a change of guard, but soon that too would get sorted out."

Now, with all the 26 culprits shifted to the central prisons at Madras, Vellore and Salem in three batches without any loss of time after the verdict, the five barricades around the local prison have vanished.

Even the CRPF jawans are busy packing their bags, awaiting their next posting. And for the first time in more than five years, the specially-elected watch-tower at the prison has been left unmanned, and the lone gunner is sheepishly guarding the camp area.

"We can hope for some business now," says Raju Nicker. The restriction on the use of the area has meant two things for him. Buses through the road were re-routed. Even common visitors to the area were wary of standing by a shop, as it would attract the attention of the police. "That nearly ruined the business, and many of them have already closed shop and left."

It was there for the media to see. The place where then Central Bureau of Investigation's Special Investigation Team chief D R Karthikeyan and Special Public Prosecutor Jacob R Daniel briefed them on the historic verdict last week used to be a successful non-vegetarian restaurant. The prison and barricades meant doom to the business, and the owner had no option but to pull down the shutters after a while.

"In a small place like this, even a few days loss of business is enough to ruin you. Imagine years of closure, and possible police harassment over your patrons."

A few other shops, particularly tea-stalls and newspaper vendors, too, had little business once the buses took a different route. Some owners managed to pull along, with the faint hope that it would all be over, sooner than later. Others have left the shops in the hands of their womenfolk, earning a few rupees working elsewhere. Their numbers were not large, but their problems were real.

"Why, we even had to travel a few extra kilometres, and pay an extra 50 paise every time we had to go to Poonamallee town," says Srinivasan. "It may look a small sum, but imagine the daily wage-earner sparing an additional rupee and an extra hour a day, for no fault of his."

That way, at least, the locals are the ones who are happy that the Rajiv case trial is over, and they can now live in peace -- without the unnamed fears of surprise attacks and shootouts by the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam, to obtain the freedom of their locked up cadres.

''It might have never happened, but the threat was real, and so was our anxiety,'' says one local.

In a way, the locals had not bargained for the problems that faced them when the Poonamallee prison was chosen to house the accused in the Rajiv case. Suddenly, their little town, too, had attained international attention, like Sriperumbudur not far away, where Rajiv Gandhi had been assassinated.

But once work started on improvising and securing the prison, and once the trial began on a day-to-day basis, their woes also started alongside.

Their troubles were so real, and their resentment equally potent that then Congress MLA 'Polur' Varadan had little option but to join hands with them.

The people staged demonstrations, blocked roads and even moved the court, against the barricades, against the re-routing of the buses, and the against the very housing of the assassins in their locality, rendering it all a security-risk to the locals. But the court, too, was helpless and could do little to help them. Soon they got used to the idea of having 'policemen to guard us'.

''We are going to miss them,'' says Velayudham, a class nine student. ''I cannot 'threaten' my friends, nor can I 'mock' at the police, offering my five-year-old sister to be frisked, if they wanted to see the vegetable bag I was carrying. Yet, they would always grin and bear, not complain, or care.''

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